Summary: Sherlock BBC is a futuristic (self-insert) AU fiction set in the XXI Century, unfinished, by John H. Watson, MD (1895)
tagged: Victorian homophobia, repressed longing, repress everything, John Hetero Watson, yeah I'm biased against Victorians, but I like canon Mary Morstan
—-
In another hundred years the entrepreneur spirit and actions, characteristic of this age, would have carried on; should the eradication of smallpox and/or a trip to the Moon be too much to hope for, then, at the very least, certain aspects of an ordinary London life are surely to get no worse? For example, a less rattling typewriter, a less tumbling buggy, and a less troublesome form of communication than the telegram would all greatly benefit an ex-army doctor with a weak leg and a weaker bank account, who happens to have been set up with an overly energetic flatmate. Intellectually only, that is.
"Ah! It's raining again. Since Billy is not likely to come in to-day, my dear Watson, given his bit of a personal situation at hand, would you be so kind -"
"In a minute, Holmes, I am busy, as you have surely noticed." Dr. Watson retorts, stressing on 'busy', but his train of thoughts has run off the pages on command before his fingers ever lift from the keys. The current story is in its early form anyway, and he might as well toss in later what that message to the Continent would bring forth, participating in - aiding - the process. Not entirely unacceptable. The smoke in the drawing room thickens; his said flatmate is presumably sunk into the sofa, immobile, his gaze in a distant land, the only explicit clue to his intricate mind an enigmatic message scribbled on a scrap piece of paper in its usual place. An enigma himself, this man, a madman as some have called him; it would be madness to co-habit with, cater for, even time after time succumbing to such a man for long - several years now, especially in the case of the weathered veteran Dr. Watson, had he not acknowledged this man also a companion, a friend, and…
Dr. Watson takes the message and his leave. The hat serves him well in the drizzle before a buggy pulls over. He cringes his way through the winding streets leading to the Post Office and ponders about the connection between the odour and the chemical plants nearby, as suggested by the newspapers. This sort of mental exercise has rubbed off on him like the ever-present faint hint of high-brow tobacco, although his friend would more frequently consult the newspapers for information than for opinions. Deduction is a science, apparently. Speaking of science, the more relevant - even urgent - sort of science as direly sought after for the private comfort of Dr. Watson would be a more advanced code than the Morse. No, not just a code as laid out as a spreadsheet in a handbook, but an enigma, an encryption as they call it, preferably personalised in some way, sufficient to avert friendly eyes. His friend derides his writing often enough, perhaps not too scornfully, but with an unequivocal disapproval of what he calls 'romantic overtones' - an accusation which the good doctor objects strongly; the romance is there. Trying to win an argument with that arrogant busybody would not be as practical as obtaining some private room of free expression, however subjective. It's their story; but it's his side of the story.
And, in those stories, he will call him Sherlock.
—-
"Do you have a boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way."
"I know it's fine."
An agreement, but not an answer to the question, contrary to his usual policy of brutal honesty. Perhaps that's a rash judgement on John's own part, considering them having met for a total of less than two days. Is that a 'yes'? The inadvertent candlelight casts a soft shadow to the face of the enigmatic man of distinct features seated opposite. John's stomach sinks, just a little.
"So you've got a boyfriend -"
"No." There's a slight shake of the head confirming that statement, yet an unexplained doubt knots his brows. For a fleeing second, an open vulnerability flickers in his eyes. For whatever reason, John licks his lips, and says, "Unattached, like me. Good."
"I see that you have been indulging in self-congratulation lately, Watson, for the accomplishment of something unusual by your standards."
Dr. Watson hums a nonchalant response while chewing. He refrains from licking his lips. Dinner tonight at 221B is about as ordinary as it gets, with Holmes having eaten little and turned his attention to his companion. But with a little imagination, any occurrence as commonplace as dinner can be flying with sparkles, so to speak. Well, a little is an understatement; Dr. Watson has, most fittingly, found his bold endeavour - not in deeds, but in words - worthy of applause. To construct an entire world where it's fine is arguably more reckless than anything he had done in Afghanistan, but who is to say what the future holds? Moreover, it's just a bunch of wild fancies anyway, materialised for his own eyes only. Here realism rightfully recedes in the face of the heart's desire. To vocalise oneself through the third person takes some practice, since the notion of first person is simply - no. Under any other circumstance, Dr. Watson may have found his companion's curiosity at least annoying; but given the extraordinary nature of his secret, the confidence that even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot fathom a universe where H. Watson is openly lesbian fills him up more than the food does. Deduce away.
"A private affair, I assume. Another lady-friend, perhaps?"
Dr. Watson grins widely. "No, a sister." And he raises his glass in a triumphant half-toast, to Holmes's pronounced dismay.
For whatever reason, Dr. Watson wishes her well, at least better than his non-fictional brother.
—-
"John! Are you all right?"
Sherlock's pale long fingers are working on his torso rapidly, his panicked exhales hot and eager through John's shirt against his belly. John manages to hold himself up until the removal is complete. The post-Semtex collapse is anticipated; Sherlock understands. An array of words surges to his tongue all at once, the most prominent being 'Thank you' and 'I'm sorry' and 'It's all right', but he's still regaining the air in his lungs, and it's all said with a look. Sherlock knows, and John thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile; he always knows.
Dr. Watson folds up these pages with trembling fingers that do not result from the gun wound. To be fair, this level of guilty pleasure is right between having stolen some candy from the jar, and having plotted a great conspiracy against the Crown. It is well that the scratch in his thigh does not directly impair his writing capacity; for this night Holmes had offered - begged - to remain in his room, should any complication arise, but Dr. Watson practically shooed him away, locking the door. In the end he has come up with no greater recourse to discretion than an old-fashioned safe, along with the less-noisy pen and paper. For the purpose of keeping Holmes away, any box labeled 'private' would suffice, for he can be quite the gentleman when he elects to; when he does not, well, the safety of any safe would come under question. Dr. Watson sighs as he tucks the papers - now a manuscript - into the safe anyway. The Adventure of the Three Garridebs is to be typed for public consumption; the Great Game is not, at least not the last part.
Despite the unrelenting burn in his skin, Dr. Watson manages to drift off in bed; he is, after all, a veteran. The smell of chlorine and sulphur fills his uneasy dream, along with the ardent gaze of a great soul.
—-
"Oh, John, you will not love me anymore when you're finished."
"Nonsense, Mary, for I do not believe any written word in this world should hold such power." Dr. Watson smirks at his wife who is apparently in a dramatic mood, and gently takes from her hands a dubious booklet. Mary giggles, a rosy glow radiating from her cheeks. In a time of overhanging gloom Dr. Watson is greatly indebted to Mrs. Watson for her gentle manners and easy cheers, if nothing else. He squeezes her hands indulgently, before turning his attention to the coarsely assembled pages. Third-grade printing beyond doubt, a.k.a. readability at its cheapest, characteristic of the propaganda of a myriad of new-found '-ism''s. For a brief moment Dr. Watson squeezes his eyes shut, having been reminded of the one friend to whom he owes such assessing experience and skills. Nevertheless, he opens his eyes and the booklet to find his assessment wrong.
"Got it from a friend, she said you could use a few laughs, actually. But apparently the folks who put this together are rather invested, having a club and all. By the way, they are all devout fans of yours." Mary eyes at John's lack of reaction with uncertainty. "Please, John, do you find it offensive? I certainly don't mean to -"
Dr. Watson inhales deeply, an unfamiliar knot gripping his stomach. "No, Mary, it's…" It's not fine. He would not say that. Sherlock's name has been more elaborately used than to his liking, and the narrative is painfully realistic. He has been aware of his readership for quite some time now, but not of fans who would subsequently produce their own. Blimey, these are better and truer stories than his can ever hope to become.
Are they overly imaginative, or have I been that obvious?
"I, uh, I appreciate this level of enthusiasm, I really do." Harsher words are on his tongue. He struggles to keep them back. "But Good Heavens, what are they implying? As the matter stands, these are fictive materials of indecency, to say the least, not to mention a gross injustice to and disrespect of the deceased, are they not? Holmes - he was my best friend, Mary, as you understand more than anyone else, and I'm obliged to defend his honour as my power permits. Send your friend my regards, but please, pull a stop to this club if she can."
"Aw, John, bless your heart." Mary kisses him on the cheek, and John kisses her back.
—-
"I am truly sorry for your loss, my dear Watson."
Hopefully in the next century losing loved ones would be less commonplace. Life is indeed a stage, a busy one, the coming and going shifting more rapidly than a change of roles. The man for whom Dr. Watson had mourned for three good years is now standing by his side again, at the grave of the woman who had consoled him back then. For once, Holmes pats him lightly on the shoulder before stepping away, as if leaving him room; Dr. Watson acknowledges the gesture with a nod.
Illness is a termination more irrevocable than heroism, apparently. The convention is to grieve, but not too much, and the socially acceptable amount of sympathy likewise allotted. Now a widower - unattached, again, Dr. Watson keeps his distance even as he moves back into Baker Street, the safe weighting heavier under his bed. He should've thrown it away - destroyed it - when he took his wedding vows; now he's grateful that he didn't. At least, he has kept the promise he made to himself, never opening it up during his marriage. Speaking of writing, the fate of a more prominent contemporary comes to mind; for those who understand how such matter works, indecency per se is probably not as great an offence against the Crown as a leverage in the hands of existing enemies from any side - and Lord knows how many of that Holmes had managed to acquire during his career.
It's all just fiction if it's set in the future.
In most ways they carry on just like before, with murders and mysteries and the occasional banter with Scotland Yard. But in private, Dr. Watson's storyline digresses. In the same bedroom where he had stayed before, the distance to the other one seems ever growing; so he wanders into a parallel universe of his own construct, where another John punches his Sherlock, tackles him to the floor for what he had put him through. Swears, yells, kicks a table if he wants to, does all that Dr. Watson would not do in this best and worst of times. To kill, to steal, to destroy; one villain throws him into a fire while another shoots a bullet through Sherlock's chest, but they rescue each other and rise again. They drink, they share laughs, they touch each other - try to, and forgets about it the next morning. That's probably for the best. His nocturnal labour under the lamp disintegrates into a pile of incomprehensible scribbles - vents, more likely. He does not mind making sense of them later, at an indefinite point in time.
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."
"No, it's not."
Even in his wildest fancies, they are not talking about it.
—-
In another hundred years industrialisation is promised to take over the world; in which case the time-honoured rustic cottages of Sussex with enormous gardens, like theirs, may give way to, say, airports. That would be a shame. Back to the present, the change induced by relocation - and age - is arguably substantial, but Dr. Watson has always found a degree of familiarity to their previous phase of life. Such familiarity peaks not when Holmes is occasionally running around investigating again at the earnest request of random village-dwellers, ironically, but when Watson straddles to the breakfast table on a lazy morning after a very fulfilling night, to find Holmes up early, doing particularly nothing.
"Have you finished?"
"And good-morning to you too, Good Sir." Watson responds with a long yawn, picking up the cup of tea he knows to be to his liking. It's now a bit difficult to tell without his glasses on. "Have I what, beg your pardon?"
"Your autobiography, is it finished? You were at it again last night, against all medical sensibility." Old age seems to have instilled in Holmes a nursing instinct previously absent. "Since there are not many currently events in need of update, I thought it a possibility for you to wrap up at this point."
Watson freezes momentarily, then laughs, managing not to spill his tea. "What? No, it's not an autobiography. Try again."
Holmes's face falls, a glint of confused vulnerability in his eyes. In a sense he is not wrong; but Watson is honest also, since his work invents, not recounts, all the things that they had not - could not have - been. He relishes the view of Holmes's now-classical hands-under-chin pose, gloriously dignified even in a somewhat tattered dressing gown, as well as the notion of being part of the puzzle. "Very well, my dear doctor. This manuscript has drawn my attention since Baker Street; the work is, beyond doubt, a great mental exertion surpassing all our cases that you have previously romanticised and published, since you labour long in thoughts and slow in writing. Given the accumulated work-hour and its extent implied therein I had once suspected it to be an academic volume, but your absolute secrecy deems it a private, not professional matter. An autobiography is the only logical conclusion." Watson watches his brows furrowing some more. "Unless - my, my," he tuts, "that is quite improbable, but logical nonetheless. Dear Watson, have you been penning a crime novel?"
The well-made tea is extremely helpful under such circumstances. Watson swallows down a great gulp, trying not to worry whether the flight-or-fight rush of blood he feels is showing in his face. "Er - no, call it what you will, it's most decidedly not a crime novel. Keep guessing."
"I never guess."
I know that line, Watson smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes creasing into his greying hair. "Then keep deducing, Sherlock." The name that has been on his mind for far too long escapes his lips, unexpectedly foreign when uttered out loud.
Now the blushing of Holmes is abundantly evident, the pink in his ears no less blatant than when Watson had ejaculated a major compliment during the very first days of their acquaintance. "I - I'm sorry?"
"Sherlock. That's your name. Problem?" Watson has resumed his calm. It can't be a secret, not forever, whatever it may be.
"Yes, I am aware. The matter is, you see, no-one has addressed me that way for a very long time, not after Mother, Father, and Mycroft."
"That's only because you've never been married." Watson observes, somewhat teasingly.
"That's true. But pray tell," mischief twinkles in Holmes's eyes, "What in the world do I need a wife for? I've always had you, my dear doctor."
Does he know? He always knows, everything.
In a thousand universes they kiss; their lips tremble against each other's in a thousand ways, fingers tugging in hairs of a thousand styles and degrees of greyness, low murmurs of 'I love you' and 'I know' exchanged in a thousand languages, late yet not too late. Then they marry a thousand times, on a thousand timelines with horses or cars or spaceships or none of these things, calling each other 'sweetheart' or 'idiot' or, more often, simply 'Sherlock' and 'John' for the rest of their lives. But in this one, where everything starts off from and converges to, despite a swell in his heart Watson has stayed in his chair; in lieu of any witty comeback he asks, "Say, Holmes, what do you make of this world in a hundred years?"
"You ask of prediction in the long range, dearest Watson; deprived of any credible means of validation, such pondering escapes the realm of Science. "
"Oh, come on, there is no need to be uptight about it." Watson chuckles. "Would you not entertain a friend? Besides, your input could potentially add a few intellectual touches to my work, which - I can assure you - is not a work of science."
"Fair enough, though what I may give are educated guesses at best." Excessive gravity overshadows his deep voice. "For the powerful of nations like our own, ever-more worldly comforts and conveniences should materialise from the accumulation of wealth and scientific advances, given that such powers not be destroyed by greed in the first place. On the other hand, have the explorations in exotic lands brought about more widespread insights concerning the vast extent of possibilities of how a society as well as an individual may function? The general populace is likely to stay as inclined to existing beliefs as they always have, along with all the prejudices and biases. A final point concerning the the crime rate in London: the ever-widening wealth gap is not likely to help."
Watson blinks with intrigue. "I did not know you to be of grim outlooks."
"Nor do I; it is perhaps a matter of wording. In simplest summary, I project humans of the twenty-first century to be richer, smarter, but alas! Not necessarily kinder, the dimension on which I place the greatest weight."
"You do?"
"Well, yes, I do, as you should know, my dearest Watson." Holmes sounds almost hurt by the suspicion.
"So do I." Watson says softly. "Still, who is to say what the future holds? There should always be Hope, for the better, where it matters. Before that," he suddenly sits up in the chair with glee, "you may get a read-through of my magnum opus, when I decide on an ending to it."
"I concur." Holmes turns back to the newspapers with a smug upturn of the corner of his lips. "Until then. Is it going to be a happy ending?"
"I should hope so." Watson's gaze casts into a distant land. "It's not unreasonable to hope for the better in another hundred years."
Until then, the next turn of the century.